


Cold Metal

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Gun Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 01:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15377382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Valjean swallows again. He’s too unnerved to ask Javert what he wants. He doesn’t think Javert would tell him.Instead, slowly and warily, he comes closer, uncomfortably aware of the gun at Javert’s hip, and of the way Javert stands with his hip cocked, all confidence. He can’t say which of the two is pulling him towards Javert, but the pull is irresistible, like a magnet.





	Cold Metal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwelveLeagues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/gifts).



> A belated treat because I can't shake this obsession with Killer Joe Wattsvert. This sort of mixes musical and Brick canon, because I'd love to see just how Wattsvert would handle the Gorbeau house scene.

“Strip.”

Javert’s voice is cold. The room is empty now, Thénardier’s gang handcuffed and dragged out by the officers Javert has brought along.

Now it’s just the two of them in this room. Even so, for a moment, Valjean freezes, thinking that he must have heard wrong.

“Strip. Now.” Javert speaks calmly, although his voice is sharp. It’s a familiar tone: one that doesn’t allow disobedience.

Still Valjean hesitates. His stomach drops. He doesn’t quite understand what’s going on.

Javert has him at last.

For once, Javert’s not wearing his intimidating uniform. Instead he’s wearing jeans, a shirt and a cowboy hat. He’s handsome, a part of Valjean realizes wearily. Out of the black leather, he looks handsome, in a clean-cut, confident, masculine way. But he still doesn’t look normal. That’s the thing about him. Even now, he exudes cold authority. There’s no warmth in his eyes. And it isn’t just the holster with the gun at his side.

Hesitantly, Valjean shifts a little, one of his hands rising before it falls again. “Here?” he says, as if that truly makes a difference.

They’ll make him strip anyway when they put him back into a cell. Does it really matter?

“Yes. Now.”

Javert doesn’t move. Instead, he’s staring at Valjean from those unblinking eyes that make him feel small and trapped, when not even Thénardier and his gang have managed that.

Javert has come at just the right time. A moment later, and Valjean might have grabbed the hot poker to show Thénardier that he can’t be blackmailed or tortured. But somehow, with Javert, it’s different. With Javert, there’s fear at last, an unsettling heaviness in his stomach that has as much to do with the way Javert looks at him as with the gun in his holster.

Hesitantly, Valjean raises his hand again. Then, slowly, he unbuttons his shirt.

He flushes as he pulls it off, even though all he’s baring to Javert’s eyes are the old prison tats on his body. It’s nothing Javert hasn’t seen before. It’s nothing he won’t have seen a thousand times in the files on his computer—not just Valjean’s tats, but other tattoos on a thousand different bodies, a language that all says the same things: that Valjean’s one of them, that he’s forever marked by his past, that he’s not a factory owner or a mayor but just another ex-con on the run from the law. The truth is written right there on his skin, and Javert can read it just as well as Valjean.

When he drops the shirt to the floor, Javert is still watching him with the same expression. His hair is silver now, Valjean realizes, and he doesn’t know why his brain picked this moment to become aware of that fact.

It suits him. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking that, but that random thought joins the chaotic maelstrom of emotion inside him: fear, a strange breathlessness, and an insecurity that makes no sense, because why should he care when Javert’s seen him humiliated a hundred times before?

His fingers tremble when he reaches for the zip of his suit pants. He lowers his eyes; Javert’s gaze is suddenly unbearably heavy. He can’t meet those eyes as he slowly drops his pants.

When he hesitates after that, Javert speaks again.

“Go on.”

Valjean swallows heavily. To gain time, he pulls off his shoes first, then his socks, one by one. At last, he’s standing before Javert in his underwear. Javert’s still looking at him. There’s nothing in his eyes that gives away what he’s thinking; even so, Valjean nervously averts his eyes again, his fingers creeping up to his briefs, then hesitating.

“Take them off,” Javert says.

He doesn’t sound impatient or annoyed, but his voice cuts through the air like a blade. It doesn’t allow protest or disobedience, and even as shame wells up inside him, Valjean pulls his briefs down as well.

He’s naked now. He covers himself with his hands; he can’t help himself. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Something inside him feels light and fluttery: there’s terror, anticipation, a knowledge of what’s to come and even now the denial that it could be true.

That’s not what Javert wants from him. That has never been what Javert wants from him. Intimidation, yes. Humiliation—those are what Javert—

“Come here,” Javert says. He points to the floor in front of him.

Valjean swallows again. He’s too unnerved to ask Javert what he wants. He doesn’t think Javert would tell him.

Instead, slowly and warily, he comes closer, uncomfortably aware of the gun at Javert’s hip, and of the way Javert stands with his hip cocked, all confidence. He can’t say which of the two is pulling him towards Javert, but the pull is irresistible, like a magnet.

“Good,” Javert says when he’s standing in front of him. “Kneel.”

The word is enough to make Valjean’s heart clench with shock and terror.

It can’t be, he tells himself as he sinks reluctantly to his knees, his heart pounding in his chest. It’s so loud it drowns out all other sound. All he can see is the gun in Javert’s holster, a firm, threatening presence there at Javert’s side. The metal’s dark.

His heart is still racing when his eyes move on to Javert’s fly. There’s a firmness waiting there as well, and the thing inside his chest is still fluttering as his heart beats helplessly. Cold sweat runs down between his shoulder blades. Helplessly, he thinks all of a sudden of telling Javert that he hasn’t done this before, that he has never—

“Suck this.” Javert’s hand goes to his gun.

A moment later, he holds it at his groin. It points towards Valjean, a grotesque phallus of cruel metal and violence. Despite himself, Valjean raises his eyes. His shock must be visible on his face, but Javert shows no reaction.

“Suck my dick,” he says, his voice hard.

He’s not joking. He’s still holding the gun, his finger near the trigger, and Valjean feels lightheaded and dizzy as he stares at it.

Reluctantly, his heart beating in his throat, he leans forward. He wants to plead with Javert, but he knows it wouldn’t change anything. It never has before.

And Javert has never done this before. Has he wanted to? All those years in Montreuil, all those moments when Valjean found that terrifying, cold stare on him—was this what Javert was dreaming of?

His lips touch the barrel. He nearly flinches, but Javert doesn’t pull the trigger. His gun remains at his groin, deadly and loaded, and Valjean’s eyes burn with helpless shame as he awkwardly wraps his lips around it.

“Yeah. Suck it good.” Now, at last, Javert smiles. The smile is as cold as his eyes. It’s strangely sharp—harsh and cold like the metal in his mouth.

Valjean doesn’t know what Javert wants from him. What he wants from this.

He mimics the crude act he’s seen a hundred times. It’s never been something that seemed real to him—in Toulon, it was something other men did, something he caught glimpses of in porn magazines. Were there ever nights, back then, when he wrapped his hand around himself and jacked it to thoughts of obscene, red lips?

He can’t remember. He hasn’t thought about it since, anyway, not once, and the act he’s forced to perform for Javert feels different in any case.

There’s cold metal in his mouth, harsh angles, an inhuman rigidity—and that horrible threat, of course, that makes him sweat even now, the terrifying awareness of how close Javert’s finger is to the trigger.

Degradation. That one thing is the same, he thinks as he desperately sucks on the cold metal. And maybe it’s not so different for Javert. Maybe what Javert sees when he looks down at him is what those men in Toulon saw when they looked down at creased pictures of women.

Then Javert’s hand curves around his head. The touch is strangely gentle at first, but all Valjean can think about is the vulnerability of his skull. The way all it would take is one bullet to shatter bone and brain.

And perhaps there’s a terrible justice in it, to die like this—but if he were to die here, what would become of Cosette?

Then Javert’s grip turns cruel. Valjean feels himself yanked forward. He’s held in place with the barrel deep in his mouth while he chokes, the metal digging into the vulnerable sides of his mouth.

Maybe that’s how Javert wants him to die, choking on Javert’s metaphorical dick. No need to even waste a bullet on him…

Then Javert’s grip relaxes and Valjean pulls back, wheezing and coughing. His eyes burn; his chin is wet with his own saliva. He can taste blood on his tongue. And he’s still on his knees before Javert, who has reduced him to this—who’s still smiling when Valjean looks up, the gun still in his hand.

Valjean stares at it. He stares at the bulge in Javert’s jeans, which in its own way is almost more frightening than the gun.

His mouth hurts. He licks his lips, tasting the iron tang of blood. His eyes are wet. Even now, he doesn’t dare to move as Javert looks down at him. There’s still a smile on his face, and tiredly, Valjean thinks that he knows what Javert sees. Crinkled paper. Faded pictures. Naked skin, red lips, bodies that are little more than meat.

“I’ve never done this before,” Valjean says. He doesn’t even know why. It’s not a plea, not a justification. What good would those be? But perhaps, perhaps—perhaps this won’t be so frightening if he thinks that he knows what Javert’s seeing. Who Javert’s seeing.

When he looks up again, Javert’s still smiling. His eyes are still cold. But something’s different. It’s as if something inside him has relaxed while something else has sharpened.

After a moment, Javert nods, his smile deepening as he returns his gun to his holster.

“Open my pants,” he says. “Put your hand inside.”

And this time, this time, although something small and trapped is still fluttering inside Valjean’s chest, the taste of blood still on his tongue, there’s something different in the way Javert watches him as he hesitantly raises his hands.

This time, he knows that Javert’s watching him for real.


End file.
